Posen, Illinois; Huntland. Tennessee; the cemetery at Colleville-sur-Mer, Normandy, France; Sterlington, Louisianna; Roanoke. Virginia; Shenandoah
Junction, West Virginia; Clarks Summit, Pennsylvania; Elora, Tennessee; a small part of Kiev Ukraine; (I don't remember the name of the community, but) -a large housing complex in Almaty, Kazakhstan; Weno, Chuuk; Harvey, Illinois; Bradley, West Virginia; Lita, Ecuador; Fredrickburg, Pennsylvania; Neuva Ocatepeque, Honduras; Elkhart, Indiana; Imperial Rome; Charlottesville, Virginia; Crescent Lake Bible Camp, near Rhinelander, Wisconsin; an area in the Black Forest region of Germany; Palau; Lawrence, Michigan; Rock Hill, North Carolina; a bit of College Station, Texas, Guam; the route Southeast to Northwest across Ohio; The area around Moody Bible Institute in Chicago; Florence, Italy; Lake Moomaw; Bryansk, Russia; Chuuk Lagoon; Israel; a bike route from Covington, Virginia to Hershey, Pennsylvania (complete with pictures of a hotel room that used to be 8 x14 but is now only 7 x 13, because of the many coats of paint); and several airports around the world. I am taking a few minutes this morning to page through the atlas in my mind. Maps, pictures, reports of traffic conditions, and notations of where to get good chicken, pizza, or sub-sandwiches are included in my one of a kind guide to getting around in this world.
My mental atlas is horribly inaccurate. Some of the designations, like "Half-way Hardees," are meaningless to anybody outside my family. Some of its contents, like the memorial marker, "On this spot a drunk driver in a big Buick ran over Howard Merrell on the first day his parents let him cross the road with his bike." haven't been edited for more than sixty years. The information my book contains is utterly arbitrary. It says little to nothing about most prime tourist destinations in the regions it covers, yet it has a notation about the best hoagie shop in Clarks Summit, Pennsylvania--maybe the whole world--Grace's Hoagies. On page xxx you can see a picture of the trailer where Fred wielded his butcher knife and flyswatter making his wonderful sandwiches in a place that was so dirty that I wouldn't let Kathy go in because I knew if she did she would never eat anything from there again. I didn't want to deprive her of that pleasure.
"Why do you call the place 'Grace's?" I asked, referring to the sign leaned against the front of the trailer that Fred had never bothered to hang. I was hoping for a deeply Theological response.
"Aaagh, it's named after my ex-wife (expletive deleted." Such is the trivia that fills the pages of T
he Life and Travels of Howard Merrell. The pictures fade, and the data from one location gets confused with another. The compiler of this record makes no guarantee as to accuracy.
I had cause to consult my book last night as I rode from the airport to my friends' house in Koror, Palau. Kathy and I lived in Palau for four months. It was the beginning of Act Two of our life, following a very long Act One. I consulted my record because I had the distinct impression that this "feels like home."
Only it isn't home.
Kathy and I have started referring to "our Virginia home" and "our Guam home." But that doesn't quite cover it either. I could just as easily say, "The place in Virginia, or Guam, that's not my home." Don't get me wrong I'm not looking for sympathy. There is a certain freedom in being "homeless." An old song captures the mood of
our Lord's words about laying up treasure in heaven, or the Apostle Paul's words about where to
set our affection.
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